


Always Undesired, It’s in my Blood

by Melimelo



Series: Jonsa Twelve Days of Shipping Challenge [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood, Cute, F/M, Gen, Half-Sibling Incest, If you want - Freeform, Jealousy, Jonsa Twelve Days of Shipping, Sibling Rivalry, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The Revelation, because it's the thought that counts, first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-23 14:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melimelo/pseuds/Melimelo
Summary: The first sincere words your soulmate would say to you, that would reflect their thoughts, were marked on your skin. It was a commonly known fact – as soon as both persons breathed the world’s air, the words they will one day utter appear on their significant other’s skin.Jon remembers the apparition of his : he had been around four years old and playing alone in the courtyard – which was a strange thing, for he and Robb were inseparable at that age. But Robb hadn’t been here when he felt that eeriness in his head and chest.His soulmate was born, and the words etched on his skin – words that should have given him courage, strength and faith were the most hurtful he had ever heard (or not, yet).Why should it be the opposite? After all, he had always been undesired.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For once, the note is important. 
> 
> (edit: that first chapter is more a preamble/prequel, the actual story starts on chapter 2)
> 
> Okay, this one has quite an history. 
> 
> First, sorry for the delay. See, I have another Soulmate AU that happens a long time after this little fic. However, seems that my Muse was super-inspired for this one, because even a day later – I’m only having 2/10 of this fic finished.  
> So I’m gonna finish it for the 6th January (which was marked as a fill day – so perfect). And I’m writing this little prequel – which is not really a love story (since the main character is about 8 and there) so sorry for that. I’ll post the sequel as the second chapter of this fic, so if you’re interested – don’t forget to subscribe to the story.
> 
> So I’m stopping babbling now.  
> Enjoy !
> 
> (The tags are only for this part of the story)
> 
> 07/23/2018 -> This story is edited! At last! There should be no more (way less?) typos and changes past/present.

The children inhabiting Winterfell’s castle were enthusiastically playing in the courtyard. The day’s lessons were over, wooden swords were set aside by the boys, needles were delicately put away by Sansa – Arya still too young to start learning.

The boys were playing some tale they heard from Old Nan. Well, in theory. In practice, it is a teeny bit more difficult. Indeed, the youngest addition to the pack : a little sister of dark hair and grey eyes – fully Stark – had decided that she wanted to take part in their game of valorous knights and jousts, to the dismay of both Theon and Robb.

Theon claimed that he was to old to play with a two-year-old. Robb, for his part, thought girls were silly and had no want of being seen playing with one. Jon had no opinion on the matter, so close he was on pouting on the attribution of the roles.

Indeed, Theon was the oldest, so he picked the king role each time. Robb was ‘trueborn’ so he chose to be a member of the Kings Guard. Which left Jon with little choice but to be the villain mercenary. After some time, it was redundant. The only upside was that he could hit Theon without getting a scold. But still, after some time, it was redundant.

Jon smiled to himself. He had heard Father use that idiom during a meeting. He had asked what it meant, and Father had explained it to him and ruffled his curls. Jon decided that it sounded very _lordlike_ and so was using it every chance he could.

After some time, other people started to think it was very redundant.

He was brought back to the world by his sister’s cries.

“Me no go to Mom ! She is with the baby” Arya pouted and stamped her foot.

“You can’t ! You’re a girl ! There is no girl in the game !” Robb retorted.

“I’ll play a boy !”

“No. There is no person left to play. Go to Sansa.”

“Don’ wanna.”

Everyday it was the same fight. And the last two days, it only ended when Jon agreed to step aside and watch them play. It was an improvement – another lord-y word Jon was proudly the only one to use – since before that, it ended with Arya going to Lady Catelyn to cry.  
So that was how it ended to be. Arya played the villain “the blue monster” she insisted she was.

Jon didn’t mind terribly to sit in the corner and watch. It was its own kind of fun. He could use the time to think about lord-y words and knights’ stories without Theon making fun of him.

However, that day was peculiar. Next to his corner, there was a wooden bench. Jon never sat on it because it was always occupied and, when it wasn’t anymore, he was too engrossed in his thinking to sit there.

Now, as he was sitting down, he realized there was only one occupant on the bench. Sansa was sitting cross-legged and singing softly. He didn’t recognize the tune, but can guess it’s a lullaby – made to rock the rag doll she was cradling in her arms.

It was a very calm game, he mused, so different from the ones he played with Robb and Theon – which always ended in a fist fight. It looked a bit boring, but then he wasn’t involved in it. It was the same for him : he had always wanted to be Daeron the First, especially during the conquest of Dorne. Theon and Robb could play soldiers. But Theon had always refused, claiming it would be ‘boring’. Whereas Jon was certain it would be the best game he’d ever have. In his head, at least, it was.

He wanted to ask her who she was, but did not dare to do so for fear she would just ignore him and go away. He didn’t have much opportunities to see, for she was always either in her room or in lessons – and they did not share lessons. Maybe if he listened attentively, he would pick one name, that would let him know.

So he did, and wrinkled his nose in incomprehension. She was playing Lannisters – with names such as Ellyn or Joanna. Jon couldn’t comprehend how someone as clever as Sansa – because she was, he heard her Septa and Father say it – could prefer Lannisters to… to Targaryens !

But Jon sighed and resolved himself to forgive her. She was too young to see greatness in Targaryens and Lannisters were currently on the Iron Throne, through Baratheons but the prince was said to be golden-haired. To his knowledge, no prince had ever had dark curly hair.

A sudden thought occurred to him then. Perhaps that was why his soulmate preferred him to leave. Maybe she favored Lannisters over Targaryens. In Jon’s opinion, it could be a valid reason for separation.  
But it would be silly, he thought. Perhaps they will… will – what was the other lord-y word he heard last week ? Ah yes – compromise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made no indication of the character’s age, so you can imagine them however old you prefer. But I wrote this thinking Sansa was around 15-16 years old and Jon 19-20.

_It’s for the best that you’re leaving soon._

Those words are etched on his right calf. Which was unnecessary: they were graved on his mind, had been since the first time he saw his father’s contrite expression, since the first tears he shed when he read them for the first time. At least, the place makes it inaccessible unless you actively look for it. Small mercies should be acknowledged for they were scarce in Jon’s world.

The words are still hurtful for they remind him that even his soulmate thinks she is better away from him. The person that should have loved him didn’t. She _sincerely_ thinks them being apart is ‘best’. 

What had I ever done, he often thought bitterly, to make every woman in my life disregard me? His mother hadn’t wanted him, and that wasn’t even mentioning Lady Catelyn, every lady and serving girl in the precincts favor either Robb or Greyjoy, Ros pities him, and even his nurse, when he was an infant, was said to have prefered cooing over Robb than watching over him.

‘Undesired, Unwanted, Unworthy’: that could be his personal motto. He chuckles darkly, takes another swig of ale, and contemplates retiring to his room. His absence wouldn’t be remarked by his two accomplices – too busy flirting and pawing at random wenches. 

His intoxicated mind has taken a gloomy and bitter path, and Jon rationally knows that only sleep could cheer him up. He usually wasn’t a sad drunk, nor does he consider himself a sad person, but sometimes mood swings happen. Maybe something is wrong with him. He ponders that final perspective as he leaves the incense smoky room.

His room was apart the main part of Winterfell’s castle. About as far as Greyjoy’s bedroom was… and now that’s not a flattering comparison, but it points out his position for the Lady of the House. He has the same status as a traitor’s son, a man who is arrogant, disrespectful and boastful – among other things.

Why would Jon’s soulmate despise him, when he is incapable of being any of those things? When his only culpability is being born a bastard?

He wants so much things. To prove he is worthy, to have a chance to prove the world wrong about him, to prove his soulmate wrong. He can be someone important, someone admired, someone respected. He knows he can attain this, he can atone his birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading !  
> I'm going to post the following chapter in a few hours.  
> I've decided to cut my work into little chapters, but everything is nearly finished and everything will be posted by the end of the month (and that's me being VERY generous).  
> Please let me know what you thought of that little preamble !


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He knows he can attain this, he can atone his birth._

Atonement is so much harder when facing some situations. Now is one of those times where he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Jon has two secrets – secrets he’ll gladly take to his grave. 

One is the exact wording etched on his skin, which only his father knows. Usually, a few persons know one’s words: it is something to be shared with parents and between very close friends. Lord Stark knows his, because he is still Jon’s father – but that’s all. He knows Robb’s and Greyjoy’s – not that he and Greyjoy were friends, but sometimes Robb could be persuasive – but not the other way around – even Robb couldn’t be _that_ persuasive.  
The other one is sitting a few seats away from him. Sansa. His sister. She is sewing near the fire, every now and then looking up to Rickon, a mesmerizing sight. He has always been fascinated with Sansa, with her joy, her hair, her laugh, her radiance, her stories, her manners and lately with her eyes, her mouth, her skin…

Now is time to stop, he thinks, look away before someone notices. Unfortunately, there isn’t much to divert his attention to. It is pouring outside, forcing all the Stark children to remain inside. Robb is in Wintertown with Lord Stark for some lordly duty - actually they’re doing the inventory of furs stocks destined to be send to the Wall – a waste of time according to Robb, who would’ve rather gone hunting than spends his time doing administrative tasks. Greyjoy is off to the tavern. Arya stares in the flames, brooding over something and Bran is studying with the Maester. Only Rickon is playing with wooden soldiers, Sansa in that line of sight, drawing his eye.

And here it goes again. Sansa, Sansa, Sansa… She was quickly becoming an obsession. And there is nothing he can do. At first, it was very innocent – mainly because he was no more than eight or nine namedays at the time. He would find himself watching her play, smiling from a distance. It’s not as if he can spend time with her – she was a lady, a future princess, and he a mere bastard. They didn’t mix then, and they still don’t. And there would be no fairytale ending for them.

Mayhaps it is one of the reasons he arbors such… desire for her. It is known that someone will wish more for something he knows he’ll never have. He had never talked to her either, not really. Most of the time she ignores him, and when she really needs to say something – which had happened maybe once or twice in his whole lifetime – she uses an intermediate. And as for him… he doesn’t dare approaching her. Contrary to what some might believe, he does know when he’s unwanted and knows how to act accordingly. So he watches her from afar, learns everything there is to know about her, and makes himself scarce.

It is during the nights that he lets everything out. When he is alone, in his bed, and when he can’t repress the attraction he feels for his… his sister. ‘Sister’ – that’s a term he rarely uses concerning Sansa. Especially at certain times, when even switching from ‘sister’ to ‘half-sister’ has its limits. His acts have nothing of innocence anymore. He is no child anymore, has been a man for a few years already but Sansa was four years younger, still so precious, still so innocent. He mustn’t forget that.

The aftermath is always unbearable. Yet, if he is honest to himself, it is the disappointment that got to him, not the guilt. The blame is probably on his twisted mind, his bastard’s blood making itself known in the vilest manner – not feeling any guilt for his actions, for his thoughts.

Jon sighs, drawing Arya’s attention. Moment of sweet deliverance! She throws him a puzzled look, probably wondering why he is fixing so intently her sister. It lasts a few seconds, during which Jon brushes the idea that she could know, with his secret written all over his face, for the world to see. 

Set to turn off his fantasies, he calls out to her. “You’ve been nothing but doom and gloom since this morn. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing that matters t’you,” she grumbles, her tone turning off any attempt at discussion. But it is either getting a rise out of his fierce little sister or going back to thinking of Sansa, at risk of his body betraying him. The choice is prompt.

“Come on… You’re brooding so much I’m starting to worry you’ll turn into a mini-me” he teases, hoping to get a smile out of her.

“Ar… Ar !” She mocks-laugh. Then, with a smaller voice, “Is it true what Mikken says?”

“What does the blacksmith say that puts you in such a state?” Mikken was a good man, but has some trouble watching his tongue in front of ladies. What Arya was doing being in his proximity, now that’s a good question.

“He says that you want to join the Night’s Watch,” she clarifies, raising her eyes to his. He could see the hurt provoked by the statement, though she tries not to show it. He is suddenly at a loss.  
It’s true that he had entertained the thought, that he does still. The Night’s Watch doesn’t care if you’re being born a bastard, if you’re harboring disgracing feelings for your half-sister or if your soulmate doesn’t want you. Besides, it is an honorable path and the Starks had always send one of their son to join the Night’s Watch. And he was half-Stark.  
Nonetheless, it’s not how he wanted his little sister to hear of it.

“I’ve thought about it, it’s true. Nothing’s keeping me here, I don’t have…”

“ _I_ ’m here !” She exclaims, breaking his heart a bit more.

“Of course you are,” he tries to soothe her, realizing with dread that she is about to cry. “For now… One day, you’ll met your soulmate,” she huffs at that, rolls her eyes, making him sniggers. “It is the way of things. And I have no place here, no position, nothing. There, maybe I’ll be able to make a name for myself, to be of use.”

“I know all that” she retorts, “it’s just… I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, Arya.” He smiles at her and she returns one to him.

He’s about to ask her what she was doing near the smithy when Sansa chirps. “Meeting one’s soulmate is not a fact to be disregarded, or scoffed at. You should be grateful that you have one,” she added, referring to the ever-increasing number of people who are born without a soulmate. Jon smiles bitterly at the irony of it all. 

Then, to his surprise, she turns to face him. And to his wonder, she is nodding approvingly. Jon has barely the time to think that with such little things, she makes his day.

“It’s for the best that you’re leaving soon.”

Those words, it’s impossible. Her saying, how can it be?  
Those words which made his life a living hell each time he thought of them, now they are said. Out in the open.   
The world has never felt as right as now, when everything is so _wrong_.  
Yet, it is fate. She is perfect for him – the utterance of this sentence the proof that he does not need, for he already knows it.  
All stop, all accelerate.  
All is upside-down, all clicks into place.  
At last.

Oddly, his first thought is to reciprocate. To open his heart and confess everything he thinks about her. How her smiles are magnificent, how her presence in his life is a blessing. How tender and loving he is going to be to her. How perfect he’ll make sure to shape the rest of their life. How blissful their life will be.

“Jon?”

Then, reality smashes into his mind, the force of it making him stumble – he is standing, he doesn’t even remember standing up.

“Jon, you’re alright?”

It’s Arya. Arya who’s talking to him, worry plain on her face. Sansa is standing too, but stays close to her armchair. She is frowning, obviously not understanding his reaction. She even seems wary. Better and better, he thinks, now I’m scaring her.

“I’m okay. Got… pins and needles. That’s it! Glad you think so too, Sansa. I’m going to take a walk outside. Don’t you worry.”

“But Jon, it’s still rain…”

Indeed, the rain still poured outside. He runs to his bedroom, dirtying himself in the same time, mud sticking to his boots and breeches. Better him getting dirty than him dirtying his sweetheart-Sansa. She’s not yours, he amends, she’ll never be and she can never know your shame. She is so pure, so full of dreams of silken dresses and marrying a Southern prince – having a bastard for soulmate, her own half-brother on top of that, would shame and disgrace her. She’d hate you, abhor your very presence more than she does right now.

He’s going to forget it happened – it’s not like it changes anything. His soulmate still wants nothing to do with him. Nothing has changed. He’ll just have to betray nothing. He could do that. It’s not like anyone cared much about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading !  
> I'll post the following chapter Tuesday or Wednesday (at worst - depends on when I have a few minutes between exams)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It’s not like anyone cared much about him._
> 
>  
> 
> Famous last words...

“Seriously Jon,” insists Robb while the three of them walk to the dinner room, “you’ve barely said a word all day. What’s going on?”

Jon groans in annoyance, wishing his brother would just _stop_ pestering him. Finally, the dinner room comes to Jon’s rescue. With the all family gathered, Robb would not think twice about his brother’s “weird behavior”.

One by one, the family sits down. Luckily, he and Sansa are practically seated as far across one another as they could possibly be – the farthest one is Greyjoy. Jon has tried – and succeeded – to mostly ignore Sansa for the last four meals the family shared. 

As the first meal arrives, Jon stays blissfully outside any conversation. It’s when the second one comes, when Jon is enthusiastically cutting into his meat, that Robb faces him once again.

“So, Jon,” the red-headed young man starts to prob, “what’s the matter with you? You’ve been quiet for days.” Jon knows that his brother-best friend means well, but his remark only serves to put Lord Stark, Arya, Bran, Jory Cassel and Bran’s attentions on him. Lady Stark, Sansa and her Septa are quietly eating and do not concern themselves with the ‘man’s side’ of the table.

“Nothing,” Jon answers. That way is good, short, straight. Maybe it’ll discourage him.

“C’mon! You’ve barely said a word.” How could he have thought it would discourage him?

“I’ve got nothing special to say.”

There – he said it. Usually it was enough for the most persistent phases of Robb – like the one when he required him to show his words. That is the tone he uses when he doesn’t want to be disturbed anymore.

He takes another bite, thinking the interrogation is over. 

“I think I know what Snow’s trying to hide.” But count on Greyjoy to speak loud and clear. Jon is barely holding back a murdering glare to his left table neighbor. “He’s got a sweetheart somewhere, I bet.”

“What?” Robb scoffs. “Nope, not possible. Jon, carrying a torch for someone?”

“Just see for yourself, Robb. He’s as red as a beet!”

“Jon, is that true? That’s great news! Is she your…”

“No!” Jon interrupts Lord Stark quite abruptly, which earns him a disapproving look from Lady Stark. To his dismay, and his brothers increasing amusement, he is still blushing. He can feel the tell-tale warmth in his cheeks and the tip of his ears – at last concealed under his curls – at last he hopes. “It’s nothing, my lord, really.”

“You’re lying, Jon,” points out Robb. “You can tell us, who is she?”

“No one important, I swear.”

Only Lord Stark understands the maybe-allusion and the defeatist tone of his voice. He knows about Jon’s words. Robb and Greyjoy don’t. Maybe he should have told them, after all? Not who said them, obviously, but what they are. But that was a foolish thought, Greyjoy would have only made things harder.

“Is it Kaytlyn, Snow?”

“Who is Kaytlyn?” asks Robb, diverting for a brief his attention from his father’s ward.

“Mikken’s little sister. So, is it her? I know of her. For what Darren says, you only have to smile once to have her open her pretty le-”

“Watch your mouth, Greyjoy,” Robb cuts him off, inclining his head toward his sisters and mother, who act like they aren’t listening. “Jon, is it Kaytlyn?”

“No,” answers Jon. Then he adds, desperately trying to turn everybody’s attention away, in the least smooth attempt that ever was, “that pork’s quite good.”

“Is it a serving girl?”

“Stop it Greyjoy.”

“It is, isn’t it? Who? Laoren? Aymee?

“It’s Cercilia ! You’re always stealing glances at her!”

That’s not true, Jon wants to protest. But he can’t, he can rebuff Greyjoy’s teasing without any trouble, but not the perfect son’s, not Robb’s, never. He decides he isn’t going to say anything else, since every word could be used against him.  
Robb and Greyjoy are squabbling, throwing names and judging his reaction. One is obviously doing this for fun, while the other’s intentions are more malicious.

“Well it _could be_! A Snow with another Snow, at least blood isn’t wasted.”

“No, Theon, think about it for two seconds. If it was another Snow, he’d have no reason to not tell us. No, it must be someone… someone unexpected.”

“A whore! That’s it! The bastard fell in love with a whore and now he’s all miserable!” Greyjoy laughs once, then keep going, unseeing the way Jon’s grip has tightened on his cutting knife, unseeing his burning glare, unseeing his sudden want for blood. “How many coins did you pay her, Snow? How many time did she pret-”

“You. Shut. Your. Mouth. Or I swear it’s gonna taste steel before I’m done with you.”

Jon slowly stands up, and he truly thinks that the startled gasp from the Septa wouldn’t have been enough to stop him, if his furious mind hadn’t make the association between the Septa’s presence and Sansa’s. Sansa. Sansa is the balm his mind need, despair for.   
He needs to remind himself that Greyjoy does not know, that his talking is only supposition, and an erroneous one on top of that. He forces himself to sit down again and resume his meal. The shocked silence around the table does not linger.

“Well then, judging by your reaction, she’s certainly not a whore.” Robb nervously chuckles, trying to clear the air. “She’s even the opposite of one, if you’re that offended.”

Jon sighs. And that is why he should have stayed silent. ‘The opposite of a whore’… it should not be too much of a stretch to arrive to the conclusion that…

“She’s highborn.”

Jon. Is. Officially. Fucked.

He does not answer – what could he say? Anything would just point out the truth. His not-answer is answer enough.

The reactions around the table do not delay making themselves known. Greyjoy starts to laugh, Robb gives him a thoughtful gaze, Arya a puzzled one, Lord Stark looks startled, Lady Stark let out a shocked gasp. He does not dare look at Sansa, for fear that he will only keep digging his own grave.

“Jon,” Robb’s tone is serious. Good, he understands the plight in which he put him. “Jon,” he repeats, “who is she?”

“You don’t want to know, believe me.”

“I do. You’re family, I want you to be happy. Please, tell me.”

“He’s a bastard, Robb. He won’t marry any lady, best for him to get that,” Greyjoy intervenes and, while any other time he would’ve loved to punch that cunt in the face, he is calmer now and, besides, Greyjoy has only stated the truth.

“He’s half-Stark. That matters to some families. You’ve got all your chances. Is she from the North?”

“Is she blond?” Greyjoy asks, suddenly reset on guessing who. Jon rather ignores him. Sansa is the only lady he knows who’s got red hair, it’s too dangerous to venture on that ground. “Dark-haired?”  
Don’t react, show nothing, don’t think of _her_ , stay impassible, he’ll move on on his own, don’t let him get inside your head.  
“Red-haired?”  
Don’t react, show nothing, don’t think of _her_ …

Sansa. Sansa’s red locks, who are currently glowing with the flames of the hearth, so beautiful, so inaccessible…

“She’s a red-head! Look at him, he’s turning all pink.”

No, no, no, no… They can’t know, it’s a disaster, it can’t end well, they’re gonna know, Sansa is…

“Red-head, red-head…” Robb is obviously thinking seriously about it. And after a few minutes of dreading and silence, his face lights up, “It’s Alys Karstark! Is it? You like her. Is she your soulmate?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so that was my attempt at writing humor-ish chapter  
> Did it work?  
> Thank you again for reading, kudoing and commenting !
> 
> Next chapter will be posted in 2-3 days, depending on exams (still...)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Red-head, red-head…” Robb is obviously thinking seriously about it. And after a few minutes of dreading and silence, his face lights up, “It’s Alys Karstark! Is it? You like her. Is she your soulmate?”_

So he goes with the wind, confirms to the whole world that he had been making googling eyes to lady Alys. If it’s all it takes for them to leave him and his secrets alone, he’d do it in the blink of an eye. They all seem to believe him ; Lord Stark even offers to invite House Karstark and plant the idea of a union between their two houses – something Jon swiftly declines. Lord Karstark wanted to marry his daughter to Robb, and going from the trueborn heir of House Stark to some mere bastard risks to offend the Karstark family.

So Jon declines, and little by little everybody stops mentioning it to him. Life goes back just as it were, as it always has been.

Then, one evening a couple of weeks after the big revelation about Sansa being his soulmate, Lord Stark clears his throat in the middle of a midday meal. Jon immediately stops following Bran and Robb’s conversation about archery, and turns his attention to the head of the family, followed by the others.

“Yesterday eve, we received two letters, both from King’s Landing.”

Jon sees out of the corner of his eye Lady Stark’s hand takes a hold of her eldest daughter’s. Sansa’s broad smile at the mention of the Southern capital lights up her corner of the room while plummeting Jon’s stomach.

“The first one,” Lord Stark continues, his face grave, “announces the death of the Hand of the King, your uncle Jon Arryn.” The reaction to that new is mild – no one besides Lady Catelyn know of her sister’s late husband. “And the second one, was from the King Robert. He’s going to come here, with the whole royal family, in a moon’s turn.”

“The whole royal family, Father?” Sansa speaks up.

“Yes, my darling.” Lord Stark smiles, and Jon can’t help but smiles too, even if it breaks his heart.

“And your lord father has another news for you, sweetling.”

“Cat, nothing is certain yet. Maybe it would be better if…”

“What is it? What is it, Father?”

Something cold and sharp settles in Jon’s guts. He’s got a bad feeling about this. About all this. It can only end with his heart being shattered even more than it already is. 

The head of House Stark sighs but cannot retain a smile for his daughter. “Robert hinted about a possible arrangement between our families. You, my darling, might end the summer married to Prince Joffrey.”

Sansa nearly squeals from glee. Jon tries to suppress his whine by gritting his teeth, so strongly he feels like his jaw’s breaking. She babbles to her mother and Septa for the rest of the day. He does not utter a word to whosoever.

The following days, he attempts to avoid her, for seeing her so happy at the idea of marrying some princeling shit makes him want to throttle that same princeling shit; but not seeing her is not doing wonder for his mood. He misses her, as much as it is stupid to think that. He never speaks to her, she admitted that she’s not going to miss him, they’re not close and soon she’ll spend her days in the company of _Joffrey Baratheon_. Every time he catches sight of her, she is either with Jeyne Poole whispering about gods-know-what, or with her Lady-Mother. Either way, he can’t come close.

That doesn’t prevent him for letting his mind wander, in and outside of his bed. More and more often, his mind disconnects from reality and he is the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, going for the first time in the North after spending his whole life in King’s Landing. Knowing his betrothed is said to be the loveliest blooming flower of the North, being impatient to meet her but being assured that, whatever happens, he’ll spend the rest of his life with her.

He pictures the curtsy she’d make when they are introduced, the ease of their conversation when they’d make acquaintance, the taste of her lips at the very first stolen kiss in some hidden-from-view corner of the castle, the smell of her perfume, the curve of her smile when they’d exchange their vows beneath the Heart Tree, the feel of her naked skin under his fingers when he’d disrobe her.   
The sight of her while she’d surrender to the pleasure he’d make sure he’d give her.   
The sound of her panting mingling with his.   
Her thighs shaking around his hips.   
The prickling of her nails on his shoulders. 

Their hands gripping.   
Their mouths meeting.  
Their bodies joining.   
Their skins caressing. 

The moves. The closeness. 

Desire.   
Heat. 

Love.

But it’s not his reality, no matter how much he would like it. He is still ruminating over that thought as he waits at the dinner table.

“You’re alright?”

The question startles him out of his mind. His head wipes to his right, where he sees Sansa – when did she arrive? – seated at the table. Jon slowly starts to panic: he can’t speak to her, he can’t say anything but banalities. He knows, in theory, how to avoid making the biggest mistake of his life: don’t offer any opinion or personal thoughts, reply as vaguely as possible and ask questions more than answer them.  
 _I can do it, I can make small talk with her until someone else comes. She’s just being polite. If I don’t become complacent, nothing horrendous will happen._

He gives her an affirmative grunt, still uneasy with her wanting to chat, still unsure that the fact that she’s his soulmate isn’t written right across his face.

“It’s been quite a few days, but it’ll all be worth it. I’ve been helping Mother nights and days to get Winterfell ready for the royal family. It will be wonderful, I’m sure the Queen and the Prince will be impressed. They say Queen Cersei is the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms…” Sansa sighs dreamily, a small smile on her face. As for Jon, he is certain that it is the longest attention she’s ever paid to him. Like an affection starved pup, he leans toward her, basking in the scraps of attention she’s giving him.

“Aye,” it was the truth, they did say that. Jon doubts however any woman could compare to Sansa, and he certainly hope the Prince will share his view. “When’re they coming?”

“In eight days! Or around it,” she amends, obviously trying to rein her enthusiasm. “They will stay here for a month and then go back to the capital.” _And you’ll be going with them._ “They will sleep in the main tower. There will be several feasts during the month, with multiple meals and musicians and minstrels and dances.”

He listens to her talk for blissful minutes, intervenes with short answers while trying not to show her that his throat is too dry and that his voice is shaking and that his hands are clammy. When steps are heard from the other side of the door, Sansa quickly settles back in her chair – when has she started leaning toward him? he can’t tell – and flashes him a sweet smile. She’s back to ignoring him during the meal, but Jon is still high from their little talk.

The evening finds all the Starks children reunited in the playroom they used as little children. Robb, Sansa, Arya are entertaining little Rickon before his bedtime, Bran is reading a book the Maester recommended him, Jon is watching them a bit aside, still joyous of the memory of Sansa engaging a conversation. He listens with one ear the banter between the three eldest Stark siblings.

Robb and Arya seem to have sided up against their sister and tease her about her involvement of the last days. Sansa does not seem to mind them, focusing all her attention on the newest addition to the family, a lively five-year-old boy.

“Why can I not come with them ‘morrow? I wanna to!” pouts the youngest Stark, turning to Sansa as if she holds all the answers of the world.

“You’re too young, sweet. It’s an execution, not the place for little boys.”

“Bran goes!”

“Bran is older than you. C’mon Robb, tell him it’s stupid to want to go see an execution!”

“He’ll have to, someday. He’ll be the one swinging the sword, someday.”

“See, S’nsa? I wanna go t’morrow!”

“No, Rickon.”

The little boy pouts some more, unhappy at the idea of being set aside by his older brothers. Sansa is frowning at Robb, obviously annoyed at his answer.

“I sure hope you won’t have the same reaction to your prince,” Arya speaks out, “Oh, no, my hero!” she starts to imitate Sansa, that is pips in a high-pitched voice. “don’t go fight, it’s too dangerous! Someone could scratch your hand, and you would be disfigured!”

Robb and Arya snigger good-heartedly then keep on with their mockery of what they surely also imagine is a Southern twat, a grandiloquent and pompous princeling used to have everything handed to him in a silver plate and having been fed with golden spoons since he was a babe.  
Well, they’re not exactly picturing him like that. Jon is adding his own contribution of the commentary.

Sansa bits her lip and lowers her gaze, a faint blush on her cheek. But before Jon can convince himself to intervene – if he only addresses Robb and Arya, he could speak his mind without uttering the words marked on his soulmate’s skin – she takes her brother into her arms and leaves the room.

The rest of the evening is short, and Jon goes to sleep with a bitter smile on his face, for his soulmate is at last talking to him when she will meet her betrothed in a week’s turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! I really hope you liked it  
> And thanks again for commenting ! And for the kudos !
> 
> Next chapter will be posted this week-end !


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The rest of the evening is short, and Jon goes to sleep with a bitter smile on his face, for his soulmate is at last talking to him when she will meet her betrothed in a week’s turn._

The following days, Jon has two conversations a day with Sansa. They’re the highlights of his days; even if they mostly consist on him listening to her speak about her day, her impatience, her Joffrey, her future, her past, her present. When Jon’s the one doing the talking, he is always hyper-conscious of what goes past his lips. But it’s been five days, ten conversations, and he has not slipped once – never utters any opinion on her, Arya’s antics nor the weather.

His days are more joyful, thanks to the moments they spend together, just the two of them, but also thanks to his new little shadow. He doesn’t stop congratulating himself since the moment he heard the faint whimper and looked back for the little white direwolf. His companion is surprisingly alike him, and Jon who wouldn’t have thought himself so caught up with the company of an animal, enjoys it. But not any animal, a _direwolf_ , the sigil of House Stark. And Ghost, his own direwolf – for he is too a part of that House, even if it’s only half of him – had been disparaged by others for being unwanted by his wolf-mother, just like him for being a _motherless bastard_. Yet he is quite proud – understand nearly giddy with glee – that Ghost was the first direwolf who opened his eyes, the most resistant against cold and hunger – Summer and Grey Wind are always whining as soon as their masters ‘forget’ to feed them every two hours – and the most obedient of all his siblings.

Well, that’s not totally accurate, he rectifies himself with a fond smile. Lady, Sansa’s wolf, is by far the most obedient of all of them. Just like her mistress, the direwolf is very well-mannered, which leads one to wonder how she was from the same pack as Shaggydog or Nymeria, and obedient. More than obedient, in fact, she’s eager to please. So much eager that she often forgets herself in wanting to make sure everything is perfect, and everyone satisfied with her.

She doesn’t show it, and if he wasn’t paying attention and reading between the lines of her talking, he’d be none the wiser. To everyone, she is all smile all day, gushing over her Prince and the Red Keep. When she is alone, however, sitting at the table with him and away from everyone’s expectations, Sansa lets go of her pretend and of the burden the family is starting to lay on her shoulders.

_“Darling girl, if you could help me with the planning of the meals?”_

_“Lady Sansa, you should hurry finish the cuff you made for the Prince before the week ends. You could gift it to him at the reception.”_

_“Sansa! You have to help me sewing my new dress. It’s nearly finished but I can’t end it on my own, and the royal family is coming in four days, and my dress will never be ready, and the Prince’s going to see me wearing a wrong stitched frock.”_

All day long, since the announcement, she had never stopped being pulled left and right. Of course, she never complains. But Jon can see the weariness that’s slowly etching on her face, the tiredness that marks most of her steps and so he makes sure – not to help her, because even with all his good will, he can’t sew properly nor do administrative tasks for the world – to show his support in every way he can.

That includes encouraging Robb and Greyjoy to help her when she needs to, intervening when he hears someone mentioning they’re going to ask for her help – him or Robb, depending on the asker’s status – and not dismissing the vexations she shares with him. He can see her happiness in the way her eyes crinkle when she looks at him, more and more often, in the way she expresses her gratitude in doing small things back for him, just like he does for her.

No one knows about their tentative link, not even lady Catelyn. Especially not lady Catelyn. Jon is conscient that getting close to his soulmate, in his case, is not a smart idea at all. Sansa is still his half-sister, even if he never thinks of her that way anymore. 

No, lately, he’s been trying to find excuses, ways for them to be together.

He doesn’t know what Sansa’s words are, and he pays close – very close – attention on what he says when he’s around her, for there is no way he will ever let her know about the soulmate thing. If she is a little bit lucky, the words on her skin won’t be his. It is very, very rare – but it can happen. Just as more and more people spend their lives without words, some people have… unrequited soulmates. _It would be just my luck, to have Sansa’s words on my calf and for Sansa to have… another’s words on her belly._

He often lays in his bed, wondering what her words could be. If he was more selfish and more daring, what words would he told her? Since he is the one who _knows_ , he would have time to think about what words he would say – the same words he would find on her skin each time he’d make love to her, the words that should be on her skin, if he can dare to dream.

If it’s not his words on her skin, then he can only pray they are gentle – or at the very last respectful. The best would be a compliment, sweet words for the sweetest person he knows. He would even forget the harsh words he’s got if she has gentle ones.

Stop thinking about it. Stop, stop, stop.

It only serves to make his heart hurt more and his throat constrict.

==--==

A few hours later, Jon is freaking out. And consequently, he’s making his brother panic even more. _Good._

“I told you that. I said that I didn’t want her to come…” he whispers furiously. They are both hiding behind some wall, trying to remain unseen in front of the _special guests_ Robb had the _wonderful idea_ of inviting to make him happy, without consulting him first.  
No, Jon is not angry.  
He’s just in a quite dire situation, thanks to the _good intentions_ of his brother.

“I’m sorry, Jon. You said you liked her and so I thought…” Robb answers, just as quietly.

“I also said I didn’t want anything from her!”

“… that you just needed a little push.”

“And now she’s here, with her father, and you told her I was going to be her company today.”

“Isn’t she your soulmate though?”

“She’s a fucking lady, Robb – what were you thinking? Her father wants her to marry _you_ , the heir of the North, not the bastard of Winterfell.”

“But you’re a…”

“There you are, Robb, Jon.” The boys both freeze. Lord Eddard Stark stands before them, Lord Karstark and his daughter hovering behind him, and to Jon’s horror he is smiling benevolently at him. He is… encouraging Jon to go to Lady Alys…

Oh Gods… Jon. Is. Really. Officially. Fucked.

How can he react? _‘Sorry, my lord father, but Lady Alys is not my soulmate. But since you seem so keen on me acting upon my soulmate, maybe I should ask for your blessing. No, my lord, not as the warden of the North, but as the bride’s father. Since I’m thinking about it, you should probably sit down, sir. Sansa and me, we’re meant to be. And, you don’t even know the best part yet: I’ve always knew it! Even before I heard her say my words, I pictured her beneath me every night – yes, yes, my half-sister.’_ He is not sure his little speech would be well-received by his audience…

Lord Stark would send him far away, there is no doubt about it. He’d go to the Wall, perhaps. Perhaps lady Catelyn would ask for his hand, first. Or his tongue.

Or his head.

“Robb, if you would please come with me, I wish to talk with Lord Karstark about the new recruits of the Night’s Watch that’ll join the Wall in two moons’ turn.”

With that and a little contrite smile from his brother, Jon is left alone with Lady Alys. The awkwardness is shared, but Jon is certain the young red-headed standing before him is way less embarrassed than he is. Still, he has to keep her company – unless she publicly rejects his presence, but that would be exceedingly rude.

So he does. He walks with her in the courtyard, the Godswood and around the castle all afternoon. He chatters with her and, surprisingly enjoy talking with her. She is a smart girl, enjoys sparring and has a dry humor. In some way, she reminds him a bit of Arya. He smiles at their similarities and the hours fly away. Ghost follows them at first, and she isn’t frightened too much by him, then goes off chasing some rabbit or squirrel. They draw attention, the two of them, walking side by side.

But it is easy to ignore it. Contrary to most ladies he knows – and yes, that’s not much but still – Alys Karstark does not fidget under the looks they keep getting, thus don’t make him more aware of them. 

And mostly, mostly…

He can speak freely. Not quite to the point he would like, but share bits of things about him. He can tell his opinion on sparring moves, on the rain that’s sure to fall soon, on the arrival of the royal family the following afternoon, on everything that crosses his mind. It’s freeing, not to have to control his every word. It’s freeing, to be able to chat, laugh and banter without the shadow of Lady Catelyn or well-bred people looming over him.

“You pray to the old gods?” she asks, leaning on one of the Godswood’s tree.

“Most of the Northerners pray to the old gods. My family prays to the old gods.”

“It’s just that-I saw a little Sept on the way here…”

“Lady Catelyn follows the faith of the Seven. It was built for her after she married here,” Jon quickly answers, trying to find another subject. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches sight of Ghost – but before he can turn the conversation back to his direwolf’s antics, Lady Alys speaks.

“That’s quite thoughtful,” Lady Alys sighs, a longing appearing in her eyes, “she is a lucky woman. Personally, I’ve always dreamt of marrying in front of the heart-tree of Winterfell…”

“Only Ladies of Winterfell marry in front of that heart-tree,” claims Sansa’s in an icy tone. “I’m sure you have a Godswood at Karhold too, Lady Alys.”

Jon is momentarily stunned, but that’s nothing compared to Lady Alys who almost jumps at the sound of her voice. When had she joined them? Oh Gods, he surely hopes he did not say anything too… compromising.

“My Lady, I-we… we were not expecting you here.”

“I wonder why. This is _my_ family’s Godswood, near _my_ family’s castle, on **_my_** lands. I have every right to be here.”

Is it Jon or does Sansa’s tone keep getting colder and colder?  
It is not like her to speak like that to another lady…  
What the heck is happening?

“Yes, but we sort of choose that way so that we wouldn’t meet anyone…”

 _What?_   
Jon throws a puzzled glance at Lady Alys. That has never been his intention, what is she sprouting nonsense about? Sansa narrows her eyes at the two of them, and Jon inexplicably feels like he is caught red-handed…

Well, he does have a reasonable explanation, if anyone’s interested – but that’s not the case and besides, he needs to remind himself that he has no right to feel that way.  
So he’s not doing anything wrong. Right?

Sansa starts speaking again, in the same tone dripping with barely contained disdain, “Your father is probably looking for you, Lady Alys. You should go back to the castle.” Then, after lady Alys has disappeared from view, she turns her face toward Jon and, on a still haughty tone, though a bit nicer one, she declares “Lady Alys is an upstart, rude girl who doesn’t know how to speak or how to walk or how to do anything properly. She is also plain and uninteresting. You really shouldn’t spend any time with her, for she is clearly a waste of time, especially yours. Robb is right, Jon, you deserve way better than her.”

Without waiting for an answer – not that Jon could think of one at the moment – she turns on her heels and strides to the castle, leaving him baffled.

Jon is not entirely present when Lord Karstark and his daughter depart, nor when Lady Catelyn insists they all go to the barber before dinner, nor when Robb and Theon tease him about something he doesn’t even remember. Sansa’s reaction is fresh on his mind, and he has no idea what to make of her attitude, nor her words. Because in any other situation – like they were not siblings, or she was not his soulmate, or she was not a lady, or he not a bastard – if they were just Jon and Sansa, then her little speech damn well sounded like she was jealous.  
As disturbing as that thought is, Jon doesn’t have any other explanation. As much as he turns the scene in his mind, he doesn’t see another reason for Sansa to say such harsh words to a girl she never disliked before.

He is so deeply immersed in his incomprehension that he doesn’t hear Sansa sitting at her place, ten minutes before the rest of the family arrives, like that have been the case twice a day for the last week. When he raises his head to her, she looks contrite.

“I’m sorry for what I said this afternoon, and for my actions too. It was unbefitting of me and unfair to you. Please, Jon, forgive me.”

Jon smiles warmly. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, well aware that this is probably the last time they’ll ever talk just the two of them. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty about anything, especially when she has nothing to feel guilty about. His fondness for her is so intense at that moment that he can’t stop himself from mouthing an endearment, just for him to know.

“Thank you,” she says in a soft voice, returning his warm smile. “I was really feeling bad, wondering on my own if I had upset you. It was never my intention to do so, just the contrary. You’re so kind to me, and you actually listen to what I say, even if you probably find it unimportant. You… you never make me feel like I’m unimportant. You’re so thoughtful too, it’s like you know everything about what I’m thinking, everything I’m afraid of. Thank you for not judging me for it. I’m very glad we’re getting along, and I hope we’ll keep it that way.”

It’s the second time this day she is making him speechless. Such an onslaught of affection, he would never have been prepared for it even if he had known it during his life.  
He’s not going to waste all that.  
He’s got her affection, her friendship, her as a sister.  
It’s more than he had ever believed he’d live through.  
He can’t tell her he reciprocates, he loves her, she is his soulmate. Gods, it would shatter every ounce of fondness she has toward him.  
Against all odds, he has succeeded of making his soulmate like him.  
He’s not going to throw all that out of the window.

Subsequently, he turns the conversation back on her, like he’s been doing for days. “What are you afraid of?” Maybe he can help her, he’d do anything to make her feel better, to wipe away the tears he can see forming in her blue eyes.

“I’m scared of letting someone down. I’m terrified of meeting the Queen and not hold up to her expectations. What if, when I go to King’s Landing, everyone there think me unfit of being a queen? What if everyone hates me?”

Her tears fall, and Jon doesn’t think anymore. 

He **doesn’t think** \- the idiot – about that damned queen and that ass of a prince and that city who are stealing his soulmate from his love and arms. 

For he loves her, and foremost wants her to stop crying, he utters the first thing that comes to his mind, that he knows will please her. “I don’t know about her, but I think you’ll be a wonderful queen.”

He had not been thinking, but when he sees her eyes widen with plain recognition and her mouth opens, he suddenly realizes he just made the biggest mistake of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! I hope you enjoyed today's chapter and the cliffhanger ;)  
> Next chapter will be posted on Monday !


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I don’t know about her, but I think you’ll be a wonderful queen.”_
> 
> _He had not been thinking, but when he sees her eyes widen with plain recognition and her mouth opens, he suddenly realizes he just made the biggest mistake of his life._

Jon saying those words, the words she has read every evening since she learned how to read, since she learned their signification.

“Those words are the first thing your soulmate will say to you. They reflect what your soulmate thinks about you, my darling.” Her lady mother would tell her every time she would find her eldest daughter tracing the words over her belly.

Sweet, kind words that had given her strength and fed her dreams. She’ll be a wonderful queen, her soulmate thinks so.  
She knew nothing of him, except that he is older than her and say the gentlest things.

But now she knows. Her soulmate isn’t some imaginary golden prince, straight out of her dreams. He’s just in front of her, looking for all the world as if he can’t believe the words that went out of his mouth. He’s not golden, he’s not a prince, he’s not a stranger – he’s Jon. Jon, her half-brother who she had never spared that much attention to. Jon, who is just across the table and who seems to already know.

They’re soulmate, that means they’re meant for each other, perfect for one another. Yet it can’t be, soulmates are never siblings – it’s unnatural, repulsive.  
Yet the words are here.

Jon seems astounded and jerks out, sending his chair on the floor. “I- I don’t…” he stutters, walking backwards to the door, hands raised in front of him. He only stops when his shoulder bumps the doorframe. Before Sansa can go past her initial shock and thinks of something new to say, the two most dreaded things happen at the same time. Her whole family come into the room for the dinner – Father, Mother, Robb, Theon, Arya, Bran, Rickon, his nan – and Jon sees them, mutters an apology to a point behind her shoulder and precipitately leave the room.

Sansa starts to stand up, intents to follow him – to go where? To say what? She has no idea. But she can’t stand to be apart from him, not anymore. He’s her soulmate and she…

“Darling, what’s happening to you?” her mother inquires, and Sansa suddenly sees her face. She recoils a bit for her lady mother appears to her blurred before understanding that she is still crying. And that thought is the turning point: now that she is aware she is crying, she can’t seem to stop herself. It only gets worse – the crying, the hiccupping, the shaking. She can’t seem to breathe normally enough to form comprehensible words, and everyone in the room looks more worried by the second.

Her father starts to move relentlessly, “Did you see someone? Anyone said anything? Sansa, you…”

“N-no,” she interrupts him – scandalous, she knows, but at that moment she can’t bring herself to care. Her mother still clutches her while all she wants is to get to Jon. “I’m alright, it’s Jon… I” Her comment has at last the merit to makes everyone stop moving, but starts talking at once.

“Is Jon alright?”

“What’s going on?”

“What did he do to you, Sansa? You can tell me.”

“Nothing, Mother. I just have to go to him…”

“You’re not going anywhere, Sansa. Sit back and if you want me to bring Jon back here, I will. But sit back first.”

“It is nonsense, darling,” softly says her mother. “Why do you want to see him? If there is something you need, you just have to ask your father.” She is slowly stroking her hair, and Sansa stops hiccupping enough to reveal her secret.

“It’s _him_ , Mother.” At Lady Catelyn interrogative glance, she only repeats over and over. “It’s him, him” Him, him, him. Surely her mother will understand.

The dawning realization falls on her mother face just before her eyes widen with shock. “It can’t be,” she whispers, once again reflecting Sansa’s own thoughts perfectly.

“I know. I don’t know how it is possible, but Mother-”

“Wait, Cat’. What is happening?” her father demands to his wife, but it’s Sansa who answers.

“Jon just said my words, Father.”

A long silence falls upon the room. Each of her sibling is astounded, her mother is still too shocked to react and her father’s face closes suddenly, letting nothing transpire. His non-reaction is what throws her the most – shock and incomprehension, she understands, but not the severity. “I’m sorry, Father. I- I don’t understand why is it happening…” she apologizes, for she doesn’t know what else to do.

“Sansa, it’s… Where is Jon?” her father asks.

“What do you mean ‘where is Jon’?” her mother says, gritting her teeth. “Ned, there are more urgent matters than him. For once, how did he know what Sansa’s words are?”

“I didn’t tell him, Mother, I swear.”

“I never implied you did, my darling.” Her mother smiles tightly, and it looks a bit forced, but Sansa wants to believe everything will turn out right. She knows her mother won’t let her down.

“Never mind. Everybody calm down,” Ned Stark exclaims. “Meal is ready to be served, so we’re all going to eat it. We’ll address the matter when we’re on our own again. There’s something you must all know before panicking.” He adds, pointedly looking at Aurola and Laoren, who are bringing the plates.

Dinner is a tense matter. Sansa can barely eat a thing and no one around the table utter a word. Usually, it would have made her skin crawls with the need to fill the silence, but now she finds herself welcoming the no-distraction.

Her whole world has just turned upside-down. Jon, her soulmate. It should repulse her but, if she is completely honest with herself – and now is not the time to lie, you have to be honest at least to yourself – it doesn’t. And, since a little time has passed, she is less shocked than she was a few moment ago.

To admit the truth, the tears are more about the shock of finally finding her soulmate than the fact that it is Jon. Sansa has always dreamt a lot about how she would meet her soulmate. Discovering who he is while waiting at the dinner table is quite distant from what she had pictured. She is disappointed she didn’t think of anything to say, she is disappointed she didn’t remember what her first voiced thought to him was.

Because there is the point that has tormented Sansa for a few months already. She still fidgets with unease every time she ponders it. A few months ago, she has caught herself looking more and more to her half-brother, sometimes in front of everybody. It was shameful, those glances she felt herself throwing at him when she saw him eat, walk or breathe. That heat she felt in her cheeks and chest when she saw him train or smile. She was mortified of the unladylike reactions her half-brother created in her.

Weirdly, she had suddenly desired to be close to him, to spend time just the two of them and to share with him every little thing she thought might entertain him. She remembers being anguished at that awareness, understanding it is _so not_ what is expected of her regarding her bastard half-brother, the one who, with his own presence, reminded everyone of the dishonor brought upon her lady mother.  
On one hand, she knew the best course of action for her was to cease thinking about him. Something she quickly realized could not happen as long as he was in her daily-life. She remembers desperately thinking that, rationally, her interest would only fade if he or she went away.  
On the other hand, once she made the first move and started talking with him, she came to mind with the fact that he was simply too… too gentle, too dutiful, too good for her interest to be overridden.

She must face that fact: she is intrigued, she is attracted by him. And no matter that she still references him as her _**bastard** half-brother_ , it is more as a habit to her mother than anything else. For thanks to her mother, she never considered him as a brother, half or not. As for the bastard part, it just doesn’t seem so… important now. Sansa nearly chuckles at that thought, for how true it is, and how far she’d come. However, in her current situation, demonstrating a bit of happiness would surely brought everyone – her mother’s – wrath upon her and more upon Jon.

Happiness… Yes, she is happy how things worked out. Jon is not a Southern Prince, nor is he the heir of Seven Kingdoms but, in everything he is, he’s every bit everything she dreamt as a child, everything she hoped her husband would be.  
It will all turn out alright. She just has to talk to him, apologize for her initial reaction, make it up to him, tell him she likes him, and they’ll find a way.

Yes, she will hear what it is her father suddenly wants everyone to know, and then she’ll find a way to stay with her soulmate forever, like her own Targaryen epic love tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading !  
> Since for last chapter, I only put one day and I didn't make it, we're back to a more approximative publication's date for the next chapter. It  
> will be either on Tuesday or Friday
> 
> We'll be back with Jon's POV so prepare for an onslaught of angsty angst with a bit more of angst ! It has to get worse before it gets better - but there will be a happy ending :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yes, she will hear what it is her father suddenly wants everyone to know, and then she’ll find a way to stay with her soulmate forever, like her own Targaryen epic love tale._

The knocking on Jon’s door pulls him out of his misery trance. He raises his head to see who is bothering him when he obviously doesn’t want to be disturbed, but only meets the closed door.

Good. If he doesn’t make a sound, the annoying being will walk out on him.

“Jon,” It’s Robb’s voice, “Father has reunited everyone in his office. He wants you to come. It sounds important, so either you open that fucking door or I swear I’ll break it.”

That remark should have make him snicker, but his heart is so not in it. Go away, he wants to shout, but he knows it’d be useless. Robb is a man on a mission: get him away from his room and into his father’s office. Jon shudders at the thought of what Lord Stark wanted to tell him. To leave, surely. Leave and never come back near his dear daughter. In that case, he’ll probably join the Night’s Watch and become a ranger like his uncle Benjen. That is a great life too, he tries to convince himself, an honorable one compared to defiling his half-sister, hidden in Essos where not a soul knows of them.

Robb’s expression is tight and he’s obviously uncomfortable. They don’t mention what just happened an hour ago, and the walk toward Lord Stark’s office resemble at the one you take before slaughter.

Inside the office, only his father and Lady Catelyn are seated, and no one talks. Jon notes the presence of Greyjoy and his heart squeezes knowing he will soon no have a place in this family, and Greyjoy – a ward who do not share a speck of blood with them, the son of a man who wronged the Starks – will still be there.

“Lord Stark, I…” Jon starts but interrupts himself. He doesn’t see what he could say. The chilling stare Lady Catelyn bores into him freezes him on the spot. Arya gives him a small smile, his father’s gaze is understanding, Sansa’s kind, Robb’s hand squeezes his shoulder – but it’s Lady Catelyn’s face that’s etched on his retina. He’s even unable to drop his eyes, so ends up looking her in the eyes, unwavering just as she is.

“What have you done, you bastard?” she spits at him.

_Don’t flinch, don’t flinch. You’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve tried to protect her, you’ve done everything you could to keep Sansa out of this shitstorm._

“Cat’, please,” his father intervenes. “There’s something I have to tell the lot of you.”

“Well, there are social conventions I need to precise, too, apparently. Things that come naturally in the minds of normal people. For example, words are a private matter. Stealing one’s words is unthinkable. And faking a soulmate reveal is chargeable of exile, or we should cut your tongue out.”

“Mother, no! Jon has never saw…”

“Stay out of this matter, Sansa. I know you’re not at fault here.”

“Neither am I.” Jon surprises himself with his reply. He had never ever talk back to Lady Catelyn. But she had never called him a bastard in front of everyone neither, or accused him falsely of faking to be Sansa’s soulmate. That’s two great offenses, but he guesses it doesn’t matter to act as a lady for her husband’s bastard.

“You… !” Here, she is furious.  
Well, that makes two of us, he thinks, seething.

“With all due respect Lady Stark,” _If I’m going down, let it not be for a crime I did not commit_ , “I have not stolen Sansa’s words, nor anything from her. I wonder how or when I could have been able to commit such degrading actions.” _Here comes blood._ “Accusing me without any proof, only those based upon your arrogance,” _I’m leaving for the Wall soon, that’s the only chance I got to tell her what’s on my mind. Nothing could be worse than what’s currently happening._ “is the only crime committed within these walls.”

“Catelyn, Jon. If you could listen to me…” his father prevents him from going on and on. Mayhaps it is for the best. Sansa looks torn. Jon forces himself to look away. It’s everything he wanted to prevent for her, everything he was so careful to keep hidden for days. It’s out in the open, just for one second of distraction.

“You won’t castigate him for his words? His actions? Ned, it’s Sansa!”

“It’s about Sansa and Jon, Cat’. Please let me talk. There is something I should have tell you a long time ago.”

“If you waited so long before telling us, surely you have a good reason. Now, the most urgent thing is you, Sansa…”

“I’m sorry Mother but it’s the truth. Jon is my soulmate, he said my words and I probably said his…”

“Probably is not enough.”

“She said my words, too. About a fortnight ago.” Jon cuts short the dialogue between mother and daughter. He is becoming more and more intrigued about what his father had to say. For him to keep secret without telling anyone is unheard of.

“Why didn’t you-“ Sansa inquires, but he ignores the question. Why didn’t he say anything? He thinks that’s pretty obvious what prevented him to marry her on the spot.

“We’re soulmates, I don’t understand how it is possible,” Between siblings, parents with children – those were impossible options for one’s soulmate. “But it _is_.”

“Can… anyone confirm they heard Sansa says your words?”

“Arya and Bran were in the room but… it was… it was quite uneventful.” And that is Jon’s main problem. No one probably remembers, not even Sansa – and gods doesn’t that break his heart.

“Arya? Bran? Sansa? Does any of you has an idea?”

“I don’t see how, Father.” Robb intervenes. “Jon has never told his words to –”

“It was the time when we were all near the fire, stuck inside because of the rain?” his sister speaks out. “I remember Sansa said something that made you jump out of your seat. You looked so bewildered! I don’t see any other moment it could have happened.”

“No, no, you’re right Arya. She said-”

“Do you recall what you said, Sansa? Even if it’s not word for word.” His father enquires. The idea seems foreign to Jon. It has only been two hours but already the words he uttered are graved on his mind. His words on Sansa’s skin, the knowledge is nearly enough to drive him crazy.

“It was…” Sansa says, her cheeks flushing. Jon’s heart stops – if she’s embarrassed, then it means she remembers. “At the time, I thought that… I said it would be better when he left for the Night’s Watch.”

Every person present turns to look at him, except Sansa. Without any words, he lifts the leg of his breeches to let everyone see his shame. His first secret is out in the open, it’s only fair the second one is revealed, too. He doesn’t look at them, but the reminder that Sansa wants him gone crashes the last shreds of hope he could have.

“I promise that is what I will do. As soon as the morrow comes, I’ll send a letter to uncle Benjen and ask him to come by Winterfell. I’ll leave with him, then. I’ll join the Night’s Watch.”

“Jon!”

“Please, Jon, think about this. You can’t…”

“What are you-”

“Enough, please everybody!” his father calls, effectively silencing everybody. “Now that we’ve had the proof they’re truly soulmates, I ask for you, Jon, to hear me out before making any life-altering decision.” Jon nods to him, and watches his father take a deep breath. “I first want you to know that no matter what I’m going to tell you, I love you and shall always consider you my son. You will always have a place of choice in this family.”

Ned Stark eyes are filling with tears. Jon is baffled, and even his whispered “Thank you, Father” doesn’t break the solemnity of his father’s face.

“What I have to say… concern your mother, Jon.”

All stops moving. This… this is an opening Jon has dreamt of hearing since he knew what the word ‘mother’ meant, and especially who it didn’t refer to. His father wants to talk about Jon’s mother… in front of his wife and children? This doesn’t bode well.  
But well, a life-long awaited discussion surpasses the qualm he could have about his half-siblings and Lady Catelyn.

“Yeah?” If anyone can discern the blatant hope and excitation in his voice, they make no comment of it.

“It concerns your mother… and your father.” _What ?!_ “I don’t know where to begin. You were born in the Tower of Joy, in the Red Mountains of Dorne. The truth is… you are not my son by blood – you are a Stark, but I am not your father. You are the son of Lyanna and… and Rhaegar Targaryen. I found my sister just after she bore you into the world. She was dying, Jon, and she made me promise to protect you from Robert. You know, Robert Baratheon wanted to marry her, before she… fled with the prin- Rhaegar after Harrenhal’s tourney. He would have killed you, if he knew you are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. That’s why I kept the secret,” he adds after a few seconds of silence, “That’s why he can’t know, even tomorrow.”

Jon is astounded – no, it’s not the correct term, it’s not strong enough. He can’t… he can’t believe it, that’s impossible. Ned Stark… Ned Stark is his father, he has always been – he’s the one who raised him. He never told him who his mother was but… he wouldn’t have lied all along. Wouldn’t he?

“That’s not all.” Oh gods, what is it now? He wants to ask, to scream, to yell at him. This… this _imposter_ – what could he possibly tell him that could be worth his lifetime of anguish and not-belonging? “My sister – she wasn’t abducted, like my father and brother and everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms believe. She chose to leave with him. I… well I never talked to him about this, but I know she loved him. She was fierce, my sister. But she had a strong sense of honor, too. He must have, at least, loved her a little, because he repudiated his first wife, Elia. They married in front of a heart-tree, Lyanna and Rhaegar. I don’t know where, I don’t know when – but they were married. You are not a Snow, nor a Sand, Jon. You are a Targaryen. In fact, had Robert not had children with the Queen, you would have been the true…”

“Shut up!” Jon shouts, at last getting Ned Stark to stop talking. He is breathing heavily, tears blurring his vision. He is angry… _no, still not a word strong enough …_ he is furious, manic. “Why? Why are you telling me all that?” Ned Stark, the man he has always looked up to, has always wanted to impress, has let him down in the most hurtful manner.

He feels betrayed, torn apart and without anyone at his side. Which is also physically true: he stands in front of the whole Stark family, facing them but apart. Maybe it has always be in front of his nose, he just never saw it: he’s not a part of this family. What use there is to fight an already lost battle. He has always been considered a bastard by everyone, and the few people who didn’t – namely Robb, Arya, Bran and Rickon – and accepted him as a brother, now he learns he is their cousin. Worse, his real father is hated in the whole North and he is the reason the Lord of Winterfell doesn’t have his little sister beside him anymore.

He can relate, he can’t imagine what he would do if someone took Arya away from him, forever.

His mother… He had always thought he’d be prepared for everything. He imagined anything – that she was a tavern girl, a whore, she didn’t want him, she was married, she died – but Ned Stark as his father was the bright side of his heritage. Now he is a trueborn child, son of a Targaryen prince, he knows his mother’s identity and he felt more orphaned than ever.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, “Alright.” He repeats that word, even if it couldn’t be farther from the truth, like he’s mainly trying to convince himself it’s the case. Then he raises his head and, as if he were born as a new man, takes a decision, “I’ve heard what you had to say, Lord Stark. I thank you for keeping me alive all those years, and apologize for the dishonor it brought on you all.”  
He pauses, takes a breath and turn his eyes on Sansa. He’s never going to see her again, he can allow himself this one moment of weakness. She’s beautiful, standing beside the desk, the fire making her red locks shine in their own particular way, her eyes bright, worrying her hands and cheeks lightly blushing from all the emotions going on. That is the picture he wishes to keep of her, when he’ll have nothing else to keep him warm in the bitter cold of Castle Black or the deadly one in the lands beyond the wall.  
“I’m going to send a raven to Benjen and I’ll meet him on the road up to the Wall.”

With one last second focusing on imprinting the image of his soulmate on his mind, without paying any mind to the gasps or the protestations of everyone in the room – even if Sansa’s breathe some warmth in his toughening heart – he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you didn't find the characters too OOC.  
> I officially end the more angsty part of this story :D  
> See you this week-end for the following chapter !


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _With one last second focusing on imprinting the image of his soulmate on his mind, without paying any mind to the gasps or the protestations of everyone in the room – even if Sansa’s breathe some warmth in his toughening heart – he leaves._

He strides to his bedroom, unseeing the world around him. He only needs to let his rage explode, and he feels it’s ready to happen without his consent. Only a few more minutes, just the time to barge in his room, take clothes, some money and his sword and stride back to the stables. There he pauses, the importance of what he’s going to do catching up on his one-tracked determination. He doesn’t question the decision he just took, but mayhaps waiting until dawn or getting food supplies would be a wiser move.

He decides to leave during the night, but steals a few aliments in the kitchens. Back in the stables, he attempts to saddle up his horse without making too much noise. He is mostly successful, but startles when he hears hooves coming closer and closer. A figure is hauling another horse near him and his mount – one that Jon has to squint in order to identify. He’s at a loss when he recognizes the tell-tale red locks and graceful manners.

“What are you doing here, Sansa?” he sighs. Even if he is still furious at their… her father, he remains gentle toward her.

“I’m going with you,” she answers, simply, pointing two bags, like it’s the most evident thing in the world. As if it were that easy! He lets out a dark laugh and shakes his head in mild surprise.

“I’m joining the Night’s Watch, girl, not going for a stroll. There is no place for ladies at Castle Black.”

“There’s only one place for a lady in the world, and it’s beside her lord-husband.”

The way she recites that sentence, as if she read it in the _Manual for Becoming the Perfect Lady-Wife_ , makes Jon flame up with anger. “I’m not a lord, nor am I your husband.” He growls. Maybe if he scares her away, she’ll stop spouting nonsense. “You really should go back to your chamber, my lady. It’s would badly reflect on you, were you seen with me in the middle of the night.”

“Why are you saying that? Haven’t you heard Father? We’re cousins, there’s no sin, no shame to have concerning us. Us being cousin settles everything. As brother and sister, we couldn’t marry but now…”

“It changes nothing! Nothing’s gonna happen just because suddenly we’re cousins. Didn’t you hear _your_ father, my lady? No one can know, ‘cause I’m apparently not a bastard, but the son of the sworn enemy of the King – the same King who’s coming here in a few hours to marry you to his. Own. Son.” Jon grits, then take a hold of the leash she brought for Ghost and Lady he supposes and puts it back in her hands.  
He can see the shock and hurt plain on her face. This isn’t what he wanted for their last encounter, but well, she leaves him with no choice, “It was doomed from the beginning. There’s no us, Sansa, they can never be. To the rest of the world, I’m still your bastard half-brother. Go back to your chambers.” With that last request, he rises on his horse, taking diligent care to shun from her grasping hands.

“Jon, please, don’t,” she pleads, starting softly hiccupping, “let me come with you. You don’t have to go to the Wall. We could stay here, in Winterfell, Father and Robb and the others… they’d protect us should the need arise. Or we can flee together, go somewhere no one knows our names. Where we could be husband and wife, and no one would care. Please, I’d do anything just… don’t leave without me. Here or there, I don’t care as long as we’re together!”

That’s a pretty speech, but Jon is determined. He has to be the realistic one in this relationship. “That’s only beautiful dreams,” he rasps. He is not sure she heard him, because she is still clutching desperately at the air and hovering near his horse. She doesn’t make any move toward her own mare or her bags that are still set on the ground. Her own behavior is in total opposition with the words and vow she speaks. Indeed, despite all her protestations and declarations, she doesn’t act on them. Instead, she looks up at him, her eyes welling with yet unfell tears, not moving. As if… as if she waited for him to choose.

_Perfect little Lady_ , he thinks bitterly. Well, if she wants to act like a lady, better to use it to his advantage. Jon takes a long inhalation, straighten the best he can on his horse and, in the most lord-y voice he could muster, asserts “Go back to your chambers, Sansa. Consider that the only order you’ll ever have from me – bastard, friend, cousin or husband.”

And just as he figured she would, she takes a step back. Her chin is wobbling, her eyes betray her hurt and her hands tighten into fists, but she remains just as a Lady should be. So with one last look at her, and making sure Ghost is following him, he departs.

 

He rides for hours in the dark, with the moonlight for only guide and the icy wind against him. Only slows down when he can’t see the castle anymore. He makes a small fire and sleep fitfully, Ghost staying close to him.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but on those first hours, he clings to his direwolf in a way he pictures a newborn clings to his mother. He gazes up to the stars, all is silent around him except for Ghost’s breathing, and reflects on what happened.

It’s a mistake to pay attention to the gaping in his heart and the tear in his mind. Sansa was here, just in his reach, at last, and his whole being _**knows**_ she is his and he is hers. Yet he left. He left her, the only decision he promised himself he’d never take, to get married to a lad who is not her soulmate, whose only better quality compared to him is to be born a with a true title of prince.  
That faceless prince is the one she will marry, the one she’ll be forced to listen, talk and council each day of her life. And me… He chuckles darkly and ponders. What about him? Won’t he turn mad only knowing by second-hand letters about her life? Knowing he could have been the one beside her, instead of some prick.

On and on, he lets his thoughts fly out. No restriction, no self-imposed limitation and care. He ends up pondering what would happen if he turned on his heels – figuratively speaking – and ride back to Winterfell. What would happen if he goes straight to Lord Stark’s office and ask to marry Sansa. They’d give a false excuse to the King, make up anything. Their marriage, it wouldn’t need to be an important thing. Just family, he had never wanted anything else. They’d live on Winterfell or in some keep around. It wouldn’t matter to him, what if it didn’t matter to her, neither?

What if they could make it work? What if he’s the one who needs to believe more in them, instead of her being the one who needs to have less faith?  
What if he went back?

The sun raises again, just as that idea becomes more and more appealing. He has not ridden far yet, if he goes at the same pace he should arrive before the afternoon. He should attain Winterfell in time to prevent Lord Stark for announcing a betrothal as soon as the royal family arrive. He could do it, if he leaves right now. He wants to.

But the honorable thing to do would be to continue the road that goes North. Sansa marrying Joffrey Baratheon, future King of the Seven Kingdoms, is the honorable thing to do, him joining the Night’s Watch just as many Starks did before him is the honorable thing to do.

He is reflecting on his personal dilemma when catches sound of his name being hurled behind him. He can’t help his smile from widening over his face, recognizing that voice. Reflecting on his feelings, Ghost yaps then greets the grey wolf. His little sister appears before him, brightening at the sight of him.

“Jon! Here you are!” Jon forgets his dilemma, just concentrating on the feel of Arya jumping into his arms and squeezing the breath out of him. “I was so scared you were going to be lost! Sansa came to break her fast with red eyes, she hadn’t close an eye tonight you know. She said you were leaving forever…” At her words, Jon returned her embrace even more fiercely. “You can’t do that, Jon. Everyone is so bummed out you weren’t here.”

“I have to leave, Arya. I can’t… be with Sansa in that way.”

“Why? Because she doesn’t seem weirded out or anything. Even Mother sent a raven to uncle Benjen with the express order to bring you back to Winterfell as soon as you set a foot in Castle Black!” She says it all in one breathe. 

Then she proceeds to drag him up to his feet and push him toward his horse. When they are both settled on their respective mounts, Ghost and Nymeria trailing behind them, and on their way back to the castle. They chat a bit, and Jon is relieved to not find awkward – were it the bit of banter, the conversation or the silence. All is still easy with his sister – hem his cousin.

As far as Sansa is concerned, the switch between ‘half-sister’ to cousin is a very welcome one and easy to get used to; for Arya it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. You can’t have your cake and eat it… She has always been the one he felt the closest to, his little sister, from the first time he saw her little mop of black locks and grey eyes – like him, so much like him, already making him feel like he belongs.

“You’ll always be my brother,” she tells him after hours of riding, when the walls of Winterfell are in sight. “No matter what Father says or what… is between you and Sansa. If that mean you’ll make her stop scolding me for my sewing ‘because we have to impress the Queen’, then it’s even better.”

“I’m not making her do anything.”

“But you’re coming home. You’re gonna… marry her.” She pulls a face at that, and obtains the reaction she looked for. His eyes crinkle from laughter and his worries disappear. At least they do until he comes in the courtyard and see every man, woman and children who had ever step a foot in the castle, reunited and awaiting the proud stags and golden lions.

Jon and Arya discreetly make their way to the members of the Stark pack. They’re the last to arrive but, fortunately for him, he stops just behind the heir of Winterfell, whereas Arya must stand in the first line, between her sister and her little brother, thus bringing more attention on her lateness.

“Where were you, Arya?” Lady Catelyn fusses and Jon’s dread reappears in his stomach. Didn’t Arya’s mother know she went to bring him back? She left for the whole morning – and probably a part of the night, too. She is too far from him, but were she closer, he wouldn’t have hesitated to make his disapproval known.

“Leading the stray back into the pack,” his sister answers, the most innocently she can. Then, she turns to look at him and he can clearly see her mischievous smile.

Jon feels Robb’s embrace before he can fully comprehend it, Greyjoy claps his back so hard it nearly makes him wince. But the best reaction, the one he only eyes for, is Sansa’s. She’s not moving, only her face is turned toward him, she looks like she hadn’t close an eye in the entire night, her eyes are sparkling. She’s beaming right up at him, a smile so wide her Septa immediately has to reprimand her for it.

“There you are, Snow,” a strong voice booms behind him. This time, Jon’s wince isn’t toned down. Mikken, the blacksmith, he told him two days ago he’d command for a present this morning. Expect he… “I waited on you all day. You never showed up. Now’s not the time, my lord, I know,” the man smiles strangely at Lord Stark, “but I’m waiting for some fucking good apologies, boy. My apologies, my ladies.” He adds quickly, Lady Stark’s reproving glare once more proving its efficiency.

“He was with me, Mikken. We had urgent matter to see through and he helped Robb and I.” Lord Stark steps in, and Jon doesn’t miss the hopeful look he throw his way. Which – no way.  
He came back for Sansa, for Sansa only, and the only words he’ll pronounce to the Warden of the North will be about Sansa and whatever he needs to do to stop that fallacy of a betrothal the King proposed.

Mikken disappears back into the flow of people gathered behind the family just as the first drumming of hooves can be distinguished in the background noise. The effect is immediate: everybody turns to look at the gate, the noise abruptly quiets down, and Lord Stark pushes him away from that first line, “Stay there, Jon” he whispers.

Of course, he thinks, drown in the black crowd – he is a Snow again, unimportant, undrawing attention. To his surprise, Greyjoy stands at his left – thus marking Jon’s superior birth to anyone who’d bother to look. To his astonishment, he remarks that kind of this. They exchange a brief nod, both acknowledging the small alteration that’s currently occuring in their usual dynamics.

There was quite a distance between them and the line of Starks, but that doesn’t prevent his glare to fix itself on the second rider that comes into the courtyard. Blonde hair, arrogant posture and false smile, _Joffrey Baratheon_ is every bit the picture of the pretty prince Jon feared he would be. He is on edge, just like Robb whose glare goes back and forth between his sister and the golden prince. Jon’s eyes flickers to Sansa, his soulmate, dread suddenly settling in his stomach as an unbidden thought makes its way to him.

What if his intentions aren’t clear enough for her? He came back, sure, but they didn’t exchange a word yet. What if his rejection was too harsh and she forgot all about her sweet plans concerning them?  
He knows Arya assured him she cried after his dismissal, but he also knows how youth’s affections are fickle. What if her tears were only about her hurt pride, and by leaving he settled her back on wanting to marry the prince?

His anguish must have shown on his face, for Greyjoy points out that “She keeps throwing these little glances to you, so stop brooding. She’s already yours by the old gods, and no King can intervene between the gods and their will.”

And this is indeed the truth. While a Lannister-colored coach comes into the yard, and when they all kneel before the King – some fat man, with bushy dark hair and a bushy beard – they are both trying to contain their smiles and altering between looking at each other and at the floor.

“Like a green boy” notes Greyjoy, with teasing tone. Jon would bite back but, well, he’s forced to admit he’s not totally wrong. For Sansa to act all swooned and gleeful is tolerated, even if she’s a lady; but to have him express his own glee would be frowned upon. Even if he wishes for nothing more than to shout at everybody present that she’s his soulmate and that they’re soon to be married. Well as soon as she agrees to it, he amends.

Lord Stark stands up, so everybody follows and not a word is uttered while the King greets everybody. Jon feels his fists clenching the closer the King goes to her, but to his relief, he barely looks at her before grumbling a “Aye, you’re a pretty one” and setting his attentions past her and onto Arya. The comment doesn’t please him much – it’s true, but it feels as if he’s reducing her to her pretty face and confirming to the trained ear that she is a good match for his eldest son.

The Queen then steps forward and gives her hand for Lord Stark to kiss. But before she can go along the line like her husband just did, King Robert interrupts her, demanding that Lord Stark take him to the crypt, where he can pay his respects to the dead. The idea strikes in his mind, for he didn’t think about it before, but paying his respects to his mother sounds way more appealing than of a long-deceased aunt. He makes an aborted move to follow suit.  
Aborted because, judging by the look Lord Stark throws at him, now is the moment to make himself scarce.

The Queen seems displeased and goes back to her twin brother and eldest son. Lady Stark murmurs something to her eldest son and nods to Sansa, encouraging her to come with her talk to the Queen and her little prince.  
Jon clenches his jaw in frustration and annoyance. He must spend some time, away from unwanted attention, alone with Sansa. He wants to talk to her before seeking out her father, apologize at least for his words last night and set the record straight concerning his intentions and desires.

What a long way he’d came!  
But he’s not going to renounce. Not now that he’s got a chance at happiness, and a family, and a home – everything he’s ever desired.  
He just has to make sure she desires all those things as well, and with him furthermore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Some part of it is directly borrowed from / a bit inspired by the first season of the show  
> The last chapter will be posted by the end of the week :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Um... Sorry for the delay?)
> 
>  
> 
> _What a long way he’d came!_  
>  _But he’s not going to renounce. Not now that he’s got a chance at happiness, and a family, and a home – everything he’s ever desired._  
>  _He just has to make sure she desires all those things as well, and with him furthermore._
> 
>  
> 
> (Sorry for the delay)

To Jon’s dismay, the afternoon passes away without him being able to have a talk with Sansa. He sees her at several moments, chattering with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, looking for Arya or walking with that twat. Each time, he’s either talking with someone who’s not in the confidence or in a too crowded place for the bastard of Winterfell to seek out lady Sansa without raising suspicion. He never catches her eyes but that’s not for lack of trying, on both sides according to Arya.

He’s sparring with his brother – his cousin when he sees them together for the first time. And if it corresponds with the moment where he strikes a bit harder than is necessary, well, Robb is kind enough not to mention it. 

He makes himself scarce for everyone else that are not his sib-cousins. _Gods, I’m never gonna get used to it…_ he thinks, while wandering in the corridors. He doesn’t know what to do, for his cousins are getting ready for the little feast thrown in honor of the King and his family. He’s been avoiding Lord and Lady Stark all afternoon, which was a far less-easier task than he planned. He knows he promised himself he’ll talk with Lord Stark, but he needs to ask what Sansa wants before. If she wants him, that’ll give him the necessary strength to face Lord Stark and – above all – Lady Stark. And if she doesn’t, that’ll save him the humiliation.

He can’t go to her room right now because she is currently spending time with Lady Stark. He knows she’ll spend the evening meal in the Great Hall, at the feast – feast to which he hadn’t been invited. She’ll probably go to her chamber before the night is over though, and that could be his chance. He’d just have to find a way to access to her rooms with everyone being none the wiser.  
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Grab something to eat from the kitchen and count on the relaxation of the Lords and Ladies and tipsiness of the servants. Drink a bit of ale too, for liquid courage and trying to forget that my soulmate and our future is… endangered and it’s all my own fault.

He’s mulling over the recent events when a soft woman’s voice interrupts him. He lightly starts at the sound and then proceed to jump three feet in the air when he sees the person the soft voice belongs to.

“Lady Stark?” he cries out, forgetting his manners. He could count on one hand the number of time Lady Stark sought him out, and he simply can not recall if she has ever spoken to him with anything but concealed – or blatant – contempt. His astonishment at seeing her, dressed for the royal feast, in front of him in this deserted corridor, hearing her saying his name, is _totally justified_.

“I would like to speak with you, if you’re not otherwise engaged,” she says. To him. Lady Stark. To him. Expecting him to answer, from the way she delicately furrows her brows. That puts him back on his feet – her brow furrowing is something he knows, and that comforts him somehow.

Still, Lady Stark is talking nicely to him. It probably sounds a little redundant, but it’s just so unexpected! Perhaps he is not a bastard anymore, but he is the maybe-soon-husband of her darling daughter. Jon feels he’s got every right to be taken aback. After some interminable seconds, he does stammer an affirmative answer, and here they are, walking side by side along the corridor.

“We are glad you decided to come back here. It would have been quite a disturbance, to bring you back from the Night’s Watch.”

“But… you would have done it?” he asks, unsure. 

“Of course, I would’ve!” she claims, sounding offended he could think of the contrary.

“With all due respect… Why?”

Lady Stark lets out a long sigh, and look back at him straight in his eyes, “I want for nothing else but Sansa’s happiness. I will do everything in my power to ensure that. Since you’re her soulmate, that means you’re a part of her happiness.” She then surprises him even more, dismissing him with a curt “We’ll expect you on time for the meal, this evening.” She then leaves without another glance, and the world is back as it always has been.

He is seated at Robb’s left, at the feast. The meals are tastier, the music louder and the shouting more irksome, because more present, than usual. Usually, he would hate every moment of this: the too-close proximity balanced with the too-aware dismissing enhanced by the too-dulling wine sure to make him uncomfortable. Yet Sansa seems to have fun, giggling with Jeyne Poole and looking at him more often than not.

On his right, Robb is staring at the prince, seeming dubious on the attitude he must adopt toward the little shit who’s way too cocksure for Jon’s stomach. It is in moment like that where he suddenly regretted the fact that no one could know about him not being a bastard. Primly so that he could assert to everyone that Sansa was _his_. And secondly so that he could throw a few well-placed punches to wipe that arrogant look out of that prince.

He doesn’t spend one minute longer than what is expected of him and he’s careful of remaining unnoticed by the people passing by him, yet hurry to her chambers. He doesn’t dare enter, instead choose to wait by her door, hiding when he hears random noises closer to him, his heart pounding a bit more each time.

An hour passes, he sees Bran, then Arya conducted to their respective rooms, two hours pass but still no Sansa. When he feels himself drowse, for last night wasn’t exactly restful, he decides to go back to his bed. He doesn’t know when he’ll be able to talk with her, and the longer he has to wait, the longer she is prone to change her mind about him – or comfort herself that changing her mind about him is a good idea. On the other hand, he tries to reason with himself that having the night isn’t such a terrible thing. He could use the time to reflect on what he’ll say to Lord Stark if the time arise, and more urgently, what he’ll say to Sansa.

His newly found motivation to wait until the night has passed comes crashing at his feet when he sees the familiar figure pacing in front of his bedroom’s door. She turns to him as soon as she hears him come close, her face beaming without the hint of reservation she applied to it during the day, making his stomach jolt.

“What are you…” he starts to ask, but promptly stops himself. That’s a stupid remark, you fool, it’s obvious she’s here to talk to you, just like you were waiting for her. He fumbles a bit with the door handle and grits his teeth to prevent his embarrassment to show too plainly on his face.

She comes inside his bedroom and looks around for a moment. He’s at the same time embarrassed she’s so clearly observing his environment; and he’s glad she’s not paying attention to his blushing face and nervous shifting at seeing her in his bedroom. Even though he tries to ignore it, some small voice in his head summon him to act first and explain later. After all, he’s always been a moron with words, and she must still like him a little, since she waited for him, wanted to go who-knows-where with him less than a day ago, is _currently in his bedroom_ without kicking or screaming.

“Jon?” she inquires softly, making him realize that he’s now standing a breath away from her, without remembering how or when he got that close. He takes a quick inhalation, relishing in this first proximity. She is the one taking a step away from him to go sit on his bed. Not wanting to be left standing like an idiot, he drags his chair to sit in front of her, easing a conversation while insuring to leave enough space between them so that she would not feel uncomfortable.

As ever, she is the one talking first.

“I’m so glad you came back,” she murmurs, looking up with a tentative smile. “I wanted to apologize for last night, with… my Father.” He furrows his brows, unsure what she is getting at, “I was so surprised that he had kept hidden from us for so long, that is why I didn’t say anything.” She hastily adds, her eyes widening over his reaction. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s, uh, it’s alright,” he says, nonplussed. He admits to himself that he finds her behavior a bit weird, but he is careful not to comment on it. Then, seeing her still apprehensive features, he adds “I’m the one who should apologize, for the way I treated you and for the things I said. I will never-I mean…”  
Jon attempts to get a hold of himself. There is just so much he’d like to tell her, sweet words and pretty phrases he’s sure she imagined being told. He doesn’t know how to speak to ladies, he will only ridicule himself trying to. Therefore, he cuts to it.  
“Do you want to marry me? And you can say no – I mean – of course you can answer whichever way you… prefer.”

“Yes, I want to.” 

She is earnest, all trouble forgotten. They stare at each other with a blissful expression, unconcerned with the silence stretching in the room. She bites her lower lip – in embarrassment? attraction? – and Jon feels the tension increase between them. If he leans over a tiny bit, he could kiss her. That’d be the proper thing to do, with them just affirming their betrothal. Just a few inches, for only short seconds. He could rest his hand on her shoulder – or no, her cheek, she’d probably prefer on her cheek – and stops just before their lips touching, to ensure she is on board with it.

However, she starts babbling when his hand makes contact with her arm – ‘cause he finally thought that he’d start on her arm and switch to her cheek while kissing her.

“That is really nice of you to ask, though. I know you don’t have to follow through property or being all noble if you think it silly. I’m not that vain, nor a little girl anymore, I understand that you have other things to do than indulge or pamper me. Above all, please tell me if I start behaving childishly, or when I am too empty-headed for you, or when…”

“What are you talking about?” Jon asks, bewildered. “Why would I think all that?”

“Nothing, nothing. If you’re not, forget what I said. But if one day you will, please promise me.”

His assurance seems to unburden her, so Jon, even if he doesn’t really understand why she would think of such things, doesn’t push the matter. “I would never think all that,” he points out, still. “I can promise you. I won’t ever be disrespectful or disregarding to you, Sansa. You don’t know how much I… how long I’ve desired you, and to be with you. I shouldn’t even tell you all that, I’m sure it’s not the way lords address their ladies. I can try to learn, if you wish. I will learn.”

“I don’t mind,” she says to him, the most beautiful shade of pink he has ever seen gracing her cheeks.  
You’re the reason she’s blushing, his traitorously proud mind adds. He can’t deny it.  
“You’re everything I ever wanted. I’ve known it for… longer than I should say, too. Longer than what would be most proper. I never dared wanting that: you, being my soulmate, and me being yours. This is everything I’ve always desired. We are the same in this.”

And so, Jon becomes aware of the unnoticed tension in his shoulders and neck just as it lifts away to never return. _We are the same in this_ , she truly understands, she knows. They are together. It feels only natural then to let his hand moves from her arm to her cheek and to get closer and closer to her until their lips are touching, at last.

Jon has never been good with words, never knew what to say or how to say it. He wishes he could put words on the tingles he feels everywhere their skins touch, on the dizziness fogging his senses and muting everything that’s not the beating of his heart. He finds taste of the sweetened wine she’s been sipping during dinner. That coupled with the feel of her behind his hands is maddening.

Their kiss is too short, mainly because they’re both breathless once separated, but also for if anyone enter the room, he’s sure he’d not live to see the light of the following morning.

They can’t stop smiling while they regain their breath. There are a billion thoughts he wishes to share, a million things he wants to do to her.  
_And that is why I need to go now…_

Sighing, he slowly stands up, motioning to leave, knowing he needs to put some form of distance between them. However, Sansa doesn’t seem inclined to let him leave. Or to even let the newly-put space be. She holds him close, saying she does not want to be apart from him. Saying they should go to Lord Stark at once, for she does not want to spend one more day keeping company of the Prince.

“We cannot this evening, Sansa. Everybody is sleeping, what would it look like if we barged into your parents’ bedroom to… do what? Say what? We must find some excuse for the King, then wait for them to go away. Then there is the question of where we’d live and how…”

“Tomorrow evening then?” she asks, eager.

It’s her eagerness, which warms his heart like nothing else, that convince him to go the next day, even if he has to improvise in front of Lord Stark. She goes back to her room after he promises her that, and after they exchange kisses and encouragements for their respective false pretense in the following days.

Jon’s mood the following morning is, to his surprise, awful. The only improvement is seeing Sansa’s sour mood at being paraded around Winterfell by Joffrey. She clearly looks unhappy about it, and it is telling that no one bothers to say something to their lady. Unfortunately, just like last eve, Jon still can’t do anything about it.

Several times, he attempts to have a talk with Lord Stark, in vain. He has half a mind to ask for Arya’s help, but he can’t find her anywhere – “She’s probably hiding from Sansa, the Queen wants them to join her for a stroll later this afternoon,” Bran tells him, after he sees him walking in front of the stable for the fourth time.

The afternoon comes to find him sitting in some corner of the castle, conveniently unseen by passers-by. Sansa went on that stroll with the Queen, accompanied by Arya who was finally found by Lady Catelyn. Lord Stark could not be encountered without King Robert, and that allows him more time to figure out _what the hell he was going to say_.

“You’re here. Good. I need to talk to you.”

His brother’s voice startles him out of his brooding. Robb is looming over him, literally looking down on him before sitting on the ground next to him, their shoulder bumping amicably. Robb’s face, however, is everything but open and friendly right now. It’s serious, grave, and looks so much like the stern face of his father Jon’s at a loss for a few moments. It’s almost as if he’s done something bad and he’s a child again, about to be reprimanded.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to say some things, about Sansa. Let’s do this briefly. See, I’m glad you chose to come back. You were only gone for one morning, but I would have gone myself to Castle Black to bring you back by force, if it had to come down to that. I know you’re a good man, but she’s my sister and you’re her soulmate. I just want to clarify that you wouldn’t know what to expect if you ever hurt her or make her unhappy. From me, or Father, or Mother, or even Arya and Theon. Hurt her and you’ll know pain. Understood?”

“Aye, sir.” The reply is automatic, respectful and accurate of the sudden ascendance Robb brings in this warning.

“Wonderful! Now that the weird part is over, let’s not talk about that ever again. Let’s forget that discussion right now.” The last part sounds like he said it more to himself than Jon.

“Aye, sir.”

Robb smiles at him then, warm and – does he dare say? – like nothing has changed between them. As if they were still _brothers_.  
And maybe they are. For Jon at last, Robb is still his brother. Just as Bran and Rickon are, and Arya still his little sister.  
Greyjoy is still annoying at best, punches-worthy at worst. Lady Stark is surprising, but Jon’s not fooled by her new behavior. She is as she always has been: capable of everything for her children. And Lord Stark… is a dilemma. Jon feels himself straying more toward one side than the other but doesn’t dwell on this too much.

_Sansa is his everything, though,_ he admits, waiting for Lord Stark to invite him in. He is in his office, working on some pieces of paper by candlelight when Jon enters. It’s not very late, and most of the castle is not asleep yet, though nearly everyone has retired in their rooms, yet Lord Stark looks exhausted. Spending all daylight with the King only leaves him with the night to work on the daily tasks of Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. The royal family has only been here for two days, but he is already worn out.

“I wish to ask for your daughter, my lord. You’ve witnessed our discovering of her being my soulmate and me hers, you have acknowledged a way to make it happen, even if it was… unexpected for everyone involved. I know she’ll make me happy and swear that I’ll do everything to make her smile at least once a day.”  
There, he thinks, the personal part of his speech is over – the one he spent most of the evening mulling over. Now he only needs to state the official part of the _“sir, I want to marry your daughter and she wants it too”_ ’s speech. Lord Stark will agree, they’ll find a way to counter the King’s plans and he won’t have to talk to him before he’s fully ready to.  
“We’ll stay grateful and truthful to your house-”

“There is no need for that, s-Jon. Of course you’ll marry Sansa, there has never been any doubt of that.”

At that assurance, Jon barely holds off a scoff. Because, really, never any doubt? He made it sound as if that has always been his plan: marrying his eldest daughter to his sister’s son. Even when everybody thought his sister’s son was in fact his own bastard. That it would be more about unnatural repulsive incest than a simple marriage like there can be seen often enough.

“Alright, sir. I should also ask about the matter of the king, and the prince.”

“I never made Robert think I was going to accept his proposal. That is only what it is: a proposal.” Lord Stark makes a small pause, then adds “I think we should have a talk about what I said last day and the announcement of-”

“I have nothing to say on the matter, my lord, nor do I wish to hear you out.”

“Jon please… I-”

“With all due respect, Lord Stark,” and right now, I’m not feeling quite a lot toward you, he silently adds, “If you have no idea on how to discard Joffrey, um, the prince, I will ponder the subject on my own. Thank you for your time-”

“I just wanted to apologize to you. I have always considered you as my son, and even if you are technically not, we’re still family. I only ever wanted to protect you, and to keep you alive.”

The silence stretches between the two men. Jon still feels betrayed by the man he idealized so much his whole life, who lied to him about everything. Some part of him, he could admit it was the smallest one, wants to behave childishly and stomps his foot and refuses any communication. The other part of him, though…

“I accept your apology,” he sighs, sitting down on the chair in front of Ned Stark’s desk. “And I understand why you did what you did. I can’t say I’m ready to forgive and forget everything right this moment, but I will. Not long from now, I will.”

His uncle’s comfort lights up his face, and suddenly he appears less tired and younger. And just for that, Jon’s glad to have truly spoken his mind. A new sense of ease can be found within the room, and the atmosphere feels more relaxed between the two men than it has ever been, in Jon’s opinion.

Ned Stark opens his mouth, to say what, Jon doesn’t know. But his grey eyes are shining with joy, so he is not bothered too much by what it could be.  
However, the door behind him slams open with such strength a commode rattles. Lord Stark’s eyes switch from joy to surprise to shock so fast Jon has the time to observe it before standing up and facing whoever entered the office.

Lady Catelyn bursts into the room, face distorted into an angry snarl, her eyes wide, pulling her daughter behind her. It was the sight of Sansa that made him bolt out of the chair. She was in her nightgown, a cloak hastily thrown to cover her modesty, her cheeks strained with dried tears. Her eyes are red from contained tears and she was shaking from repressing them.

“What happened?” Both men demand at the same time.

Lady Catelyn doesn’t answer with words, but she pulls her daughter’s cloak off her shoulders. Jon’s eyes widen and instinct kicks in: he goes to turn away, but what he sees stills him into shocked horror.

Sansa’s nightgown is tied to her shoulders by slings and wider around her throat, baring her arms and cleavage. In any normal situation – if it should occur, to see his intended nearly naked for the first time in front of her parents – that would suffice to make him turn around, or at last close his eyes.  
But her arms. Her wrists.  
They were covered in blue, black and red. It doesn’t take long for him to put it together. He knows what bruises look like, he sees them every other day on his own arms and chest. But on Sansa?

“How could it happen?” The question escapes him. He is so scandalized the filter between his mind and his mouth doesn’t work anymore.  
Because this is her it is about. She is his soulmate, his intended and someone has been touching her, _hurting her_. And he remained unaware of it – he did **not** see, did not hear. “How long?” He doesn’t know who he is asking – Sansa, her mother, anyone – he needs an answer. Something uncommon is happening to him: his fists tighten, his back tense up and his tunnel vision focuses on Sansa, everything else a blur. Rage builds up in his belly and he forces it down. He needs to obtain a name, and then he’ll let his hunger for blood burn him.

“Sansa, darling, who did that to you?”

“I-I’m so sorry, Father. I never wanted to be a bother to you,” Sansa answers at last, her sobs dying down. “I thought I had everything under control, but I slipped earlier. I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone – it is mainly my own silliness that made him… angry.”

“You are not silly. There is no excuse for this, Sansa. It shouldn’t be happening, to anyone – and especially to you. Tell me who’s done this. Or tell Jon if you’d rather.”

“It was Joffrey,” she declares bashfully. Then, understanding nothing will come to her, she starts to speak more freely. She tells how he would grab and squeeze when she would say something that did not please him, or he judged stupid. She tells of the glances that makes her skin crawls, of his smiles that makes her want to back away from him. Of his conversations, the glee she heard when he talked about the death of his little brother’s kitten on the way here, the disdain and hate he has for everything and everyone that isn’t him.  
At some point during her avowal, she tucks herself into his arms and when she’s over, she hides her face in the spot between his throat and shoulder.

Lord Stark’s face has turned pallid – surely mirroring Jon one’s. His initial rage is still present but toned down by the feel of Sansa in his arms, Sansa nearly clinging to him. He barely hears lady Catelyn whispering furiously with her husband, instead focus on soothing his shaking sweetheart. He soothes himself at the same time.

Thereby, when lady Catelyn puts her hand on his shoulder, signaling it was the time to leave. They part with little difficulty, both clearly wanting to turn the comfort more physical but forbidden to do so by the presence of Lord and Lady Stark.  
Doesn’t matter, though. There is no way Sansa is spending one more minute with that prick – and now we have an official reason to submit to the King should he wonder why. With a little luck, it will be enough to make him leave. To make them all go away, and never come back.

At first light on the morning, Jon watches his uncle ask for a private talk with King Robert and they disappear into his office for what seems like hours. Robb comes to find him before they go out, and judging from the similarities between their expression, he knows about Joffrey too.

“Sansa told me,” he whispers angrily, answering Jon’s unspoken question.

They are both seething with repressed anger. If it was up to him, he would already be beating the life out of Joffrey. Robb helping him. Arya too. The others cheering them on. They don’t get to beat the prince personally, but they do destroy one dummy or two during practice.

Bran is the one interrupting their session, declaring Ned Stark’s sending for them. “Sansa’s engagement with the prince is broken,” Lord Stark announces as soon as his whole family is seated before him. “The royal family will return to King’s Landing very soon, and you do not have to spend more time with Joffrey. I’ve talked with your Septa, she’ll find you excuses if the need arises. Your wedding,” he adds, looking at the two of them and their joined hands, “can take place as soon as they go. I may take Robert’s offer to go South and be his Hand after the ceremony, but I don’t feel certain yet.”

The last part of the announcement goes a little over the head of Jon, and he imagines over Sansa’s too, for relief takes hold of his entire being. He can’t suppress his smile, a small piece of utter joy for the whole world to see – not that many are looking.  
Nearly no one is, actually. But Sansa is. Sansa is beaming right back at him, uncaring of any odd look she might get.

They are walking to the godswood, soon followed by Ghost and Lady, so close their shoulders are touching, so close their entwined hands are hidden to the commoner’s view. For now.  
For soon he will be able to hold his soulmate’s hand – Sansa’s hand – in plain sight. For he will marry her in front of the heart tree of Winterfell, someone he desires and who desires him in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for reading this story. Special thanks to everyone who kudos, subscribed, comments/ed, bookmarks/ed. I did not really expect so much people being interested in what I write...  
> I spent a long time (several years in fact) writing without posting anything and any returns just enhance the fact that I should have, or at least could have.
> 
> So yeah I just wanted to thank you – if anyone is reading the notes (I always do, but maybe I’m the only one xD)
> 
> Class started so I won't be posting so regularly, but I already have a few OS in the GOT fandom in mind, and some stories I posted a few years ago in the Harry Potter fandom that I might translate into English.
> 
> Thank you again ! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it.  
> Tomorrow’s fic (well next fic’s really which I’ll post right after) will either be a Roommate/Flatmate AU or Meeting the Family Trope.


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